To Fight for Freedom
by 896kataanger896
Summary: Jet finds Longshot, orphaned and homeless, in the ashen remains of a village. I am planning to encompass the days after Longshot loses his home all the way to the events that transpire in "Lake Laogai."


There was silence.

Despite the forest, vibrant, inexplicably _alive_, that spread off in every direction, there was only silence. It was as though there was a distinct barrier between the world inhabited by birdsong or the patter of small paws and… here. Green crossed harshly into deadened grays and blacks; what was not reduced to ash was the charred remainder of what was, rot seeping in, slowly wearing away even that.

The silence seemingly deafened none and the destruction was seemingly spectacle to none, save for the youth who haunted it.

He was a strange young man by any standards (unbeknownst to him that there was one to think such); all he seemed to do willingly was stand before one of the crumbling structures in the clearing. He would remain, stock-still, a few feet away from where the door ought to have been for much of the day, then return to the bare, ashen part of the forest.

This was his world.

He awoke with a start, hand flying to the bow that he was as easily associated with as he was with his facial features. As he regained awareness, he relaxed his grip, sighing. Every innocent sound created by the occasional forest-dwelling creature that dared to venture near was the sinister crackle of flame; every heave of far-away branches as the wind passed through them was the heavy step of a komodo rhino; and every cloud was a distant plume of smoke. Was there any escape?

He froze. There was the sound again.

He carefully nocked an arrow, straining his senses in the darkness. When he detected movement in his peripheral, he released the arrow; it embedded itself in one of the first of the trees that were hale and unmarred by blackness. The intruder retreated, and he was alone once more.

He sank to the ground, hands shaking, vision blurring, and heart beating rapidly. What _was _that?

He closed his eyes, attempting to steady his breathing. Whatever it was, it was gone.

They all were.

Sleep eluded him for the rest of the night. He would turn, first hither, then thither, trying to take in everything at once, ears attempting to hear beyond an absolute silence and eyes attempting to see beyond the impenetrability of a moonless night. There was the lingering insistence of solitude that he wished to be true. Greater than that, he wished for _something_, an answer to this fearful anticipation, favourable or otherwise.

He began to think that perhaps he'd imagined it. Perhaps it was but the projection of one of his greatest fears: A figure looming out of the darkness, come to claim the last survivor.

The fidgeting worsened. His eyes moved about in a blur.

_No._ He mustn't think of that.

_Silence. Stillness. Precision. _He was an archer.

He forced himself into a rigid posture, back straight against the tree underneath which he had been sitting. He did not move until dawn broke, at which time he returned to his accustomed place among ruin, a disturbed line of dirt in soot marking the path he always followed. As he watched what he knew was once a house – no, a home – the scene before him changed.

A door, cut slightly unevenly and sanded smooth, gleaning in the increasing sunlight, erected itself where it ought to have been. A proud little table, struggling to support its light burden, wobbling slightly, stood against one of the walls, surrounded by four chairs. Odd assortments of rocks littered the floor and various surfaces. He focused on the heap in the corner. Everything was beyond recognition – only by memory did he know what was meant to be what – but this was the most terribly changed. If he looked closely enough, he could _just _make out the shape of a skull –

_No._

He reached a hand above his head and straw obscured his vision; he thereafter broke his solemn ritual for the first time he knew.

Days passed. He gradually grew weaker, each step more sluggish than the last. By the eighth, he found not the strength to rise.

That was when the stranger returned.

"Hey!"

It barely registered at the edge of his subconscious.

"Hey, you sleeping?"

The voice was masculine. It took him a moment to process the words. Yes, he supposed he had been. He didn't respond.

"Are you even _alive_?" He vaguely sensed that this person had drawn nearer. He opened his eyes.

"Spirits, have you eaten _anything_ since the last time I was here?" He thought. No, he supposed he hadn't.

The boy was searching through a small pouch. He closed his eyes again.

"Here, have this." His eyes opened once more. The boy was holding a pale lump.

"It's bread. Eat it." _Spirits. Eaten anything. I was here. Have this. Bread. Eat. _The words moved about his mind, flowing together. His hand moved, seemingly on its own accord, towards the proffered item – bread? – and brought it towards him. The next thing he noticed was that the bread was gone.

So was the boy.

The day progressed. He didn't know how long it was before he was aware of someone kneeling next to him. His eyes painfully flickered towards whoever it was. There was a sense of recognition. He thought.

Oh. It was him.

The boy – he couldn't recall a name – was holding out something else. It was red. Or was it brown?

"Here. They're leechi nuts." _Leechi nuts. _It sounded familiar. He reached out. They, too, were gone in a matter of minutes.

Hours went by in a dreary haze of being offered water and, bit by bit, various food items.

He didn't know how long he slept. When he awoke, it took him several minutes to recall where he was. Then, he remembered the strange food-bringer. _Had it been a dream?_ He shifted slightly. Someone else, just a few feet away, shifted also.

"Oh, you're awake."

Well, it seemed _that_ had been quite real.

"You gave me quite a scare, back there."

He hadn't been the one blundering about in the middle of the night.

"Oh, and sorry about that first night… My name is Jet, by the way." Jet waited several seconds before he added, "Until you give me a name, shall I just call you Longshot? That was some pretty nice shooting; you missed me by about a foot in total darkness, and I was at least twenty yards away."

_Longshot._

That would do.

Jet followed Longshot's gaze. For a moment, what they each saw was the same. A town. Streets busy with merchants and child's play.

The flickering of flame. Smoke filling the sky.

"Yours, too?"

For a moment, they were one.


End file.
